That worry line between his dark brows eased and he smiled, though it was slow to come. And it wasn’t a kind smile. It was wolfish.
Then he gripped her legs, yanked her up and over his thighs, and gave her potential whiplash and a good eight inches of steely hard cock at the same time.
When he entered her completely in one deep thrust, she cried out at the joyous intrusion, and he froze.
“Jesus,” he groaned, from far above her, his breathing heavy even though he wasn’t moving. “God, you feel good.”
“Mmm, you too,” she gasped, her body adjusting to his girth. “Better than good.”
Because good didn’t begin to describe how this felt.
“I could come like this. I don’t even have to move. I could sit here and soak, feeling you wrapped around me, and lose it.”
But then, he did begin to move. Slowly at first, then quicker, his thrusts so powerful they were almost violent, and it was at times both pleasurable and painful.
Oh, he wasn’t hurting her physically; just the opposite. His heavy erection sliding in and out was heaven on earth, the erotic sounds of raw sex filling the carriage house thanks to her raging river of wetness.
It was then Chloe realized, at that moment . . . he wasn’t looking at her.
His eyes were squeezed tightly shut as if blocking her out.
His chosen sexual position put a good three feet of open space between them, him on his knees and her on her back, and despite his body buried deep inside hers, put him as out of reach emotionally, as he’d been physically for the last decade.
And worse, he hadn’t kissed her once since pushing her back onto the bed.
In fact, other than her vagina and her breasts, he’d not touched her at all. And yet, this was the best sex she’d experienced since, well, since the last time she had sex with Jameson, and he wasn’t even finished with her.
Unless he’d lost his stamina over the years, she knew he could—and would—go repeatedly.
“Hey,” she murmured, rising up from a prone position to cup his stubbled cheek. “Are you with me?”
When he continued to thrust, not opening his eyes, she spoke louder. “Jameson, wait. Stop.”
That was the magic word because he did. He froze mid-plunge, finally opening those fathomless brown eyes and looking at her.
“What? Why?” He looked down at their joined bodies as if expecting to see a visible reason for her time-out in the middle of the action.
“You can pile-drive me if you want. I mean, I’m clearly loving it,” she confessed, gesturing down her body, the flood testifying. “But if being rough with me is your way of punishing me for the past, it’s falling flat.”
“I’m not punishing you.” He didn’t deny being just shy of too rough, though.
“You can fuck me or make love to me or turn me over, take me up against a wall, or in the passenger seat of your truck. Any way or all the ways, I’m game,” she said, feeling his scratchy five o’clock shadow scrape her palm enticingly.
A scrape she wanted on her neck. Her inner thighs.
“But you’re gonna do it with your eyes open,” she added. “Knowing you’re with me. Acknowledging me as more than just a receptacle.”
His head shot back in surprise. “A receptacle? Christ, Chloe, give me some credit.”
“Then look at me when you’re inside of me.”
“I can’t look at you.”
“Why?”
“Because then I’ll want you again.”
“You don’t want me now?” Half laughing, she bucked her hips, pushing against his hard-on buried deep inside.
“Now I do, yeah. But I don’t wanna want you tomorrow. Or next week. Next year.”
“Then focus on this moment. Look at me. See me,” she whispered, the words just short of pleading. “Remember. Remember what we used to mean to each other.”
He groaned and came down over her, bracing his hands on either side of her head, arms caging her in.
“When I look at you, I do remember. I’ll never forget,” he whispered, his mouth warm against hers. “When I look at you, I lose my hate. And I can’t lose that, cupcake. After everything you’ve taken from me, it’s all I have left.”
She had no comeback.
Because he was right.
“Keep your hate, then.” She nudged her lips against his, teasing at the seam of his lips with her tongue. “But can you kiss me at the same time, please?”
He laughed, his big body surrounding her, his arms sheltering her, and did as she asked. He ran a tender fingertip along her hairline, and he kissed her.
Eyes wide open.
He continued to kiss her, barely breaking contact with her mouth as he moved again, filling her with his heat and desire.
Taping all her broken pieces back together.
Chloe stared into his eyes, wishing she could read his mind. Wishing she had the power to fix him, too, her arms and legs wrapped around him, holding him tight. Knowing this was the point of no return for her.
“Love me like you used to,” she whispered, inhaling his sharp exhale. “When you used to say you loved me.”
Because he was right about another thing.
When it came to Jameson Maine, Chloe Morgan couldn’t have sex without it.
Considering her Friday night had ended with a bang—a literal doozy of a fingerbang, followed by a doozy of a fuck—her weekend sucked.
And not the good kind of sucking, either.
Because her goodbye guy was living up to his nickname, disappearing into the night and not showing his face again on Saturday or Sunday.
No blowjob for him.
According to his parked truck, he stayed inside Maine Lane, only coming out at the butt crack of dawn for his oceanic swim amongst other dangerous sharks such as himself. She knew because she set up a stake-out like a lunatic ex-lover with a criminal mind, watching and waiting as the sun rose, catching a rare sight of her obsession.
But she wasn’t bitter.
She was well-bedded, yes. Physically satiated, for sure. Sore in her lady region because, well, he was a whole lotta man.
But he was also MIA.
After she requested he love her the way he used to—because surprise, surprise, she lost her damn mind in the middle of mind-blowing sex—he went from frenetic fucker to intense but gentle fucker, and made her come once more before he finally let go, releasing a torrent inside her and simultaneously ensuring she was a Hallmark Movie of the Week away from reading too much into it and falling in love with him all over again.
But then he got up, slid his jeans back on, kissed her on the forehead, and walked out of the carriage house like it was no big whoop.
Worse? He grabbed the bottle of bourbon to go.
Quite the fine thank you. Only, he didn’t say thank you.
He didn’t say a single word.
“Hey! You had sex!”
Speaking of words, those were the first ones Wendy said to Chloe when she walked into Something Borrowed on Monday morning.
“Jesus, how can you tell? I took a shower.”
Though rinsing Jameson from between her thighs made her melancholy in a terribly unhealthy, mentally unstable way.
Like, her therapist could finally buy that condo in Hawaii kind of way.
“Pregnancy hormones. I’m super horny, but Doug’s working overtime. Plus, you look happy. Happier than you have in”—her face scrunched up while her pregnancy brain calculated a number—“about a decade.”